Floating
by xHarryIsMyHomeboyx
Summary: H/D. Harry no longer feels like a person. Draco reminds him that he's alive. The rating will possibly turn into an M later on.


Harry hardly spoke anymore. His life seemed to blur together after Sirius died and he learned of the prophecy—every individual part of him that had once seemed important melted into the warrior. He was made captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year, and maybe a small part of him was proud an excited, but a much larger part couldn't find the energy to care. He spent most of his summer strolling around Little Whinging, finding quiet places to escape his relatives, who were doing such a good job of pretending he didn't exist that he started to believe it himself. Every now and then he'd catch himself ferociously punching and pinching his skin along the side of his torso, leaving heavy bruises that lasted for weeks, just to see if he could feel it. He couldn't.

He realized just how much he had died when he arrived at the Burrow, and the sight of Ron and Hermione didn't send him flying toward them in an eager hug. He was happy to see them, of course, but the youthful jubilation he was used to feeling in their presence was gone. Instead he felt a sort of companionable understanding among them, which was at once both comforting and chilling. Under the guise of resting his hand on his hip, he squeezed his skin together, pressing as hard as he could. He felt pressure, but he didn't feel pain. He wondered if he'd ever feel pain again. He wondered if there was anything left to hurt him that hadn't already done so. Hermione asked if he was all right. He said he was, because he honestly didn't know what else to be.

He thought he might have felt a shadow of his old self when he boarded the train to head back to school, but he couldn't be sure. He was having trouble remembering who it was he used to be in the first place. He didn't think it would be long before he completely forgot.

They piled into the Great Hall for the Beginning of the Year Feast, and Harry noticed that people were being a lot nicer to him than they were last year. The usual number of eyes were on him, but this time they were staring with admiration and sympathy, some with guilt. He pretended not to notice as much as he could, but even he couldn't ignore the number of people who turned against him last year and now wanted to be his friend. He seriously considered getting up and leaving, but he knew that would just draw more attention.

"Got enough fans there, mate?" Ron asked, looking skeptically at a girl who had just dropped a note next to Harry's plate.

"I wish they'd stop."

"Give it time. It's always worse at the beginning of the school year, then people get used to you again."

Hermione reached over and took the note the girl had left. "She wants you to meet her in the library after dinner. Do you even know who she is?"

"Not a clue."

Hermione shook her head and tossed the note to the side. Harry glanced up at the staff table, his eyes falling on Dumbledore, who he could feel had been watching him. The man smiled at him, and Harry wanted to be angry with him, because that's what he thought would be the reaction of a normal sixteen-year-old boy in his position, but he wasn't. He couldn't blame Dumbledore for a prophecy. He couldn't blame Dumbledore for telling him things he had really known, perhaps subconsciously, all along. He gave a half-hearted smile back and wondered idly what his chances were of surviving against Voldemort.

There was a prickle at the back of his neck that made him turn around, and his gaze landed on Draco Malfoy, whose icy stare caused Harry to raise an eyebrow at him—a challenge, maybe. When Malfoy looked away, it felt more cold than contrite, and the image stayed with Harry through the rest of the meal.

He found himself lying awake at 3:00 AM the next morning, with the curtains drawn around his bed and his mind in a daze. Unable to fall asleep, he grabbed his invisibility cloak and wandered out of the Gryffindor common room, not sure where he was headed or what he even wanted from this little outing. He just knew he couldn't stay there, lying awake and smothered by his own thoughts. Eventually, he wasn't sure how, he ended up outside. He noticed that there was no reflection of his face in the windows as he walked by them, and while he was used to this phenomenon because of the cloak, for some reason it unnerved him this time.

As he walked further from the school, he removed his cloak, knowing it wasn't exactly safe to do so, but not particularly caring. He was heading, without really realizing it, toward the Forbidden Forest. There was something about the forest at night that appealed to him: how it was off-limits and wild and _alive_. He didn't make much of an effort to be quiet; the only person who might be able to hear him was Hagrid, and he was surely fast asleep. So Harry situated himself against a tree and watched the night, waiting for something, anything, to tell him what it was he was supposed to do.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of someone breathing. He clutched his wand and slowly rose off the ground. _It's okay_, he told himself. _I'm in the forest, of course there are things around… _But no magical creatures lived so close to the edge of the forest, and he knew that. The breaths continued, some harsh, almost like sobs, and Harry followed them. As they grew louder, he pulled his cloak over him again and walked with careful steps.

What surprised him most about what he found was how different Malfoy looked. He was standing there, his usually perfect blond hair disheveled and sweaty, wearing an ordinary t-shirt, with his robes cast aside. He was evidently practicing silent spells, aiming his wand at various things in front of him, concentrating hard, and then grunting in frustration. "_Fuck_ you," he choked, throwing his wand onto the ground and collapsing against a tree. Harry didn't move. He stood, mesmerized, watching Draco breathe heavy, desperate breaths, his chest rising and falling and his face in his hands.

ooo

The first month of school passed by in a daze for Harry. He attended his classes because he had to, but he had lost almost all interest in them. He put together a Quidditch team because he was supposed to and coached them because he was assigned to and won the year's first match because he was expected to. He felt a bit of a rush at the win, but it was so small that it was just enough to remind him of how the sport used to make him feel, and he almost wished he'd felt nothing at all.

Dumbledore had asked to see him in his office. Harry sat across from the headmaster and listened to him talk about Voldemort and his weaknesses and possible strategies. He even gave his input every now and then, and he demonstrated his skills when he was asked to. An impressive shielding spell had Dumbledore beaming and encouraged him to teach Harry some lesser-known defensive spells. Dumbledore asked him if he was all right, and he said he was because he honestly didn't know what else to be.

At night, though—at night he could feel his heart race and his blood pump and his mind reel. Every night he would don his invisibility cloak and wander into the forest. Sometimes Malfoy showed up and sometimes he didn't. But the excitement of wondering, of watching, of trying to figure out what the other boy was doing, reminded him that his organs did function and he was, in fact, alive.

Harry never bruised himself at night.

By early October, Harry had discerned a pattern: on the days he could feel Malfoy watching him in class, his eyes boring into his skull, Harry could be sure he'd find him in the forest that night. And the next day, Malfoy would make an extra effort to not look in his direction. Harry wasn't entirely sure whether he was just imaging Malfoy's interest in him or if it was really there. But as the weeks went by, he felt pretty confident that Malfoy's trips into the woods had something to do with him.

So that night, when Malfoy pulled out his wand and aimed it at a spider, Harry pulled off his cloak and concealed it under a pile of leaves. He approached quietly, feeling the blood in his veins and his heart in his chest, and a twig snapped as he stepped on it, and Malfoy froze and knew he wasn't alone. So Harry leaned against a tree and waited for Draco to turn around.

ooo

**A/N: I wasn't going to post this until I finished the entire story, but I'm interested to see what people think so far (so please review!). This isn't going to be a long fic. It's very possible that the second chapter will act as a sort of Part II, and it will be complete. But we'll see. This will be Drarry, so if that isn't your thing, you should run away now. I've rated this a T for now, but it might turn into an M, so be warned. Again, please review! I appreciate any feedback I get. **


End file.
